


Off On The Wrong Soot - A Crack Fic

by GrittyLegitty



Category: Video Blogging RPF, soothouse
Genre: Death, Possession, Sort Of, Supernatural Elements, a surprising amount of existentialism, all in third person, be prepared to be wowed by my terrible attempts to make this emotional, carson is a very irresponsible probation worker, deals and business, everyone hates eachother lmao, everyone is so mean 2 me :(, general assholery, i cant pace stories okay, im not shipping, im surprised and proud i managed to make so many parallels with misfits the show tbf, inconsistency probably, ive tried to make the plot interesting but its so 2d and linear it pisses me off, made this had a breakdown bone apple tea dot png, maybe apart from jack and rhianna and charlie, no but seriously everyone is a dickhead, possession of inanimate objects, practical use of shitty superpowers, probably angst with no happy ending?, schlatt is a businessman, specific group focuses and friendships, terrible fucking dialogue okay i write descriptions not narratives, this is a joke taken seriously please dont lynch me, two people sharing the same body, wilbur carries around a knife? thats a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 13:36:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20565221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrittyLegitty/pseuds/GrittyLegitty
Summary: Basically Soothouse meets Misfits, the TV showMe just having fun getting around my lack of descriptive vocabulary using metaphors and comparisons and also ventingLet me sing the praises of everyone in this story ok I love them all





	1. Author's Note Aha

What's up you fuckers.   
If you're reading this, you're probably as depraved as I am but who's gonna judge?

My GCSEs are coming up and rather than study I've decided to procrastinate and that's how this was born.

If you haven't watched Misfits, it's an edgy show about a bunch of young offenders on probation, who are struck by a lightning storm that gives them superpowers. 100% recommend watching it.   
I'm going to fit everyone in Soothouse to the tone of the show, so everyone might be a little bit more of an asshole, but hey! That's character building and diverging from writing a fic about actual people.

The twist is that all the superpowers they have are the ones featured in the   
R/ShittySuperpowers video.  
As for who's got what?  
Uh...  
I watched that video three times over to properly assign them and fuck me I am   
👊Dedicated👊

I have a vague plot idea, emphasis on vague, so I'll just be bullshitting this as I go so don't be surprised if it takes a while and/or my writing style is inconsistent.

Also: I'm not shipping. It's weird.

One thing I do know is that there'll probably be appearances of other Youtubers like SorrowTV, RTGame, Kevin, etc, they probably won't be anything huge but inside jokes are fun sometimes

This whole thing is just an excuse to make puns with the word 'Soot'. I can't guarantee it'll stay as a crack fic cos I tend to dramatise things but whatever happens happens I guess.

Hope y'all enjoy(?)


	2. Shooting Yourself In The Soot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winds were picking up.  
Their whistle had turned into a howl, the footsteps of the rain had turned into a drum beat.  
In the midst of the storm, suddenly Matt didn't feel so safe.  
But salvation was coming. Through the building mist, the spray of water in the air and general darkness of a typical winter afternoon, there was a pair of headlights and a towering shape to be seen. His bus, it was coming.  
But it couldn't come soon enough.

The day was grey, the weather dull. The only positive to be had was that it wasn’t raining.

All eight of them were outside, painting over graffiti was their usual task and today was not an exception. There were tags, phallic scribbles and patches of artwork decorating the side of the community centre. If anything it gave the place some individuality, because personally Wilbur admired how it looked. Shame they were painting over it, really, because this place was fucking boring otherwise.

Well, he says ‘they’, but the only person who was actually doing any work was Charlie, slaving away with his brush and bucket of nauseating white paint while everyone else sat around and did jack shit. Charlie made no comment, and no-one else told him to stop.

Wilbur was draped over the rusting bench like a cat in the sun, only he wasn’t on a windowsill and the weather was absolute bollocks. Dan was picking the peeling paint off the intricately designed bench legs, and David was watching ants crawl from a patch of dirt before crushing them with his finger. Matt was scrolling through his twitter feed and Rhianna sat by watching Charlie struggle with his task with Jack.

“Do you think we should help him?” She asked, without taking her eyes off him. She felt bad for making him do all the work, but not quite bad enough that she wanted to actively help.

Jack was likeminded.  
“If he really had such a problem, he’d have quit by now.”

Rather than helping, they just watched him struggle.

Dan had paint piercing under his fingernails and was now bleeding. David had grown tired of simply killing the ants and had turned to flicking them onto Matt’s phone and generally trying to inconvenience him. Matt did nothing. Wilbur did nothing. None of them did anything, and the only sounds were the water from the docks and Charlie’s wet slapping of paint.

It was a disgusting sound.

“Hey, where’s George?”

Wilbur opened one eye lazily and closed it when he saw Dan staring at him.

“Fuck me if I care. He’s not here, it’s all the better for him isn’t it.”

He could sense Dan glowering and sighed through his nose, sitting up and stretching the crick out of his spine. Benches weren’t comfortable, and he should have known better.

“What, you want me to go find him?”

Dan didn’t respond. Wilbur felt ridiculous, what with his beanie that’d fallen over his eyes with the force of his movement, but he didn’t doubt his ability to intimidate.

“Yeah, George is kinda a wuss.” David had stopped torturing the ants, much to Matt’s relief, and was the next to receive a piercing glare. “He wouldn’t skip probation, like he has the balls to do that.” He settled back against the railings, crossing his arms. “Besides, I’d want this to end sooner rather than later. You’re all insufferable fucks.”

No-one disagreed.

Charlie was slumped against the section of the wall he hadn’t half-heartedly painted. His face was slack with a shine, and his hooded eyes were focused primarily on the floor in front of his spread feet. No-one was surprised he’d given up, and no-one told him to resume. Rhianna and Jack glanced pitifully at him before their attention was dragged elsewhere: two figures storming down the promenade in the distance. Well, one of them was storming anyway and they knew instantly who it was.

“Oh fuck.“ Jack leapt to his feet, dragging Rhianna and everyone else’s attention with him. “We better get working, boys, it looks like the probation worker isn’t so negligent after all.”

Charlie watched with a bitter expression as the group, excluding Wilbur, all stood up begrudgingly and slunk over, picking up the paintbrushes that were ironically free of any traces of paint, and began pretending to work.

They all called their own bluff, they would have had the whole wall done by now if they’d worked with the effort they were feigning but none of them really cared, and they doubt the worker did too much either. Charlie didn’t move from where he was sat, only shooting Wilbur a dark look and closing his eyes

“I’m back bitches.”

When everyone turned, George was precariously balanced on the prom rail, flipping everyone off with the effect being killed by him nearly tipping off it backwards.

There was no mocking or laughing, just mutual apathy. They were all too bored, too tired, for this. Ordinarily Wilbur would have made a snide or snappy remark, maybe David would have made a joke too, but Wil was lying like a corpse on the bench and David was struggling to avoid the backsplash of white paint on his trainers. None of the group were looking for an argument or a fight, today just wasn’t the day.

“You know,” Everyone, including George and Wilbur, looked towards the probation worker, who was stood just outside the entrance to the community centre. He pushed his glasses further up his nose, amplifying his levelled glare, “even though you work by the hour, it’d probably be a bit more effective if you all actually worked together.”

Everyone disliked that. It was just a suggestion, but there they all were with their curled lips. Quite rude.

He shrugged, and went back inside because he couldn't really do much to sway them.

They wouldn't listen.

When he was gone, everyone went back to their work, this time with slightly less minimal effort. George and Wilbur were exceptions as they always were.

While Wilbur was the undisputed leader of the group, leading it with an iron fist, a gauntlet of such immense power that the implications of said power were enough to give him authority; it was his complete apathy-dashed-with-passive-aggression that put him in charge. When Wilbur was being his usual self, lying around like a lion watching over his pride, George's more boisterous and assertive personality was the one that held everything together, about as effectively as sparkly purple glitter glue.

They were completely different people that exerted such similar energies.

It was bizarre.

But don't think they don't care.

They're assholes, not sociopaths.

While everyone did their best to do the bare minimum of what was required of them, George bounced up and down the line, intent on annoying everyone he could. Matt was obvious, keeping his headphones on and generally not seeming to care as George used the bucket at his feet to finger-paint a dick across the back of his jumpsuit.

Matt didn't react, he never did to any of his windups, an itch that crawled all over him and an itch he was intent on scratching.

He needed to find someone else to bother.

Rhianna and Jack were probably talking smack, so he threw himself between their tightknit-two-piece and draped his arms across their shoulders.

"What's up with you two making out in the corner?"

Rhianna looked disgusted. Jack looked distraught. Maybe this wasn't the best time for some Light-hearted Banter.

His grin didn't fail him, however, not even a quiver. Not even as Jack looked desperately away and as Rhianna sneered at him resentfully.

"Don't look so pissed!" A front of defensiveness and a half-feral smile. "You can't shove yourselves into this tiny corner and expect me to believe you two aren't trying to fuck."

"Don't you have puppies you could be kicking or something?"

The malice in her words was diluted by her fatigue. She didn't even shrug his touch off, unlike Jack, who had stiffened before trying to wriggle away.

"I'm hurt that you'd say such a thing."

At this point he was speaking through his teeth, not lying but speaking. His teeth were gritted and slid off each other like mismatched porcelain pieces coated in rubber.

"I'm serious. Don't you have someone else's day to ruin? Go jump on Wilbur or something, I'm sure it'd be entertaining to see him claw your eyes out."

"Wouldn't that be him doing your job for you?"

He got a pleasant hit over the head with Rhianna's spotless brush, thankfully more bristle than handle.

"Ow, what was that for?"

"For you to go piss Wilbur off. Leave us alone."

His smile had soured slightly, as he rolled his eyes and left them behind.

His snapback was way too low on his head, his jumpsuit too constricting and his body too full of repressed energy to put any of it into actual community work.

David and Dan were having a competition: who could paint around the most dicks on the wall and who could do it the quickest. They'd actually managed to do a considerable amount between the two of them, if you didn't take into consideration that most of the paint had ended up on the floor rather than on the wall. They were content with each other, but knowing what they were like, any attention from either one wouldn't be as good without the attention of someone else for a contrast in reactions. Anything he’d try would just bounce right off them, like glue with rubber. Besides, he wouldn’t want to distract them from their apparent masterpiece: a collage of well-spaced multi-coloured cocks as imperfections between the otherwise solid patches of sill-drying white paint. That, and the fact that they’d done enough to make up for everything everyone hadn’t done, whether they intended to or not, and George wouldn’t pass up slacking without consequence even if you paid him.

Everyone was preoccupied. Jack looked upset, Matt was mindlessly dragging a brush up and down the wall, and Wilbur was doing what he did best: lying around looking pretty. There wasn’t much for him to do, no-one that was in a mind-set that was suitable to make their reactions predictable.

There was something he was forgetting.

The breeze from the docks picked up, enough for George’s hair to be ruffled through his cap. Enough to make him want to actually put his jumpsuit on, rather than have the arms of it wrapped loosely around his waist, but not enough to warrant looking like he’d been pulled from The Escapists. Distractedly, he rubbed his arms to get rid of the goose bumps that dared to rise on his skin, and he stared out over the water. In the distance, the clouds had taken a tonal shift. Rather than white, or even a light grey, they were dark and they looked angry. It was like they were the wolves in sheep’s clothing, amongst all the other fluffy white clouds; they didn’t look too promising. He turned around, but no-one else was paying attention to the abnormal weather. The most notice they’d apparently taken was that it was cold; he was surprised to see that Wilbur had zipped his jumpsuit up to his throat, and that he’d pulled his beanie over his eyes and ears completely. Someone was sat huddled by Wilbur’s battered sneakers: it was Charlie.

The ground was cold beneath Charlie, and he’d completely drawn himself into his winter coat to avoid the cold. God only knows why he wasn’t sweltering beneath the coverage of both the jumpsuit and the fluffy coat, but he wasn’t going to complain. If there was anything to complain about, it’d be the constant anxiety that Wilbur would take the opportunity to kick him in the head, that or the fact that his old converse sneakers were grotty as fuck.

Though he wasn’t going to complain because that would just make everything worse.

At least he wasn’t freezing, like George seemed to be, rubbing his arms feverishly as he leaned on the mottled railing overlooking the water.

At least he was comfortable, for now.

He looked to his left, and saw Dan following David around with a hand covered in shiny white paint, and somewhere in his periphery Rhianna and Jack were having a heart to heart, painting utensils set aside.

Today was boring and cold. He wanted to go home.

***

Inside wasn't much warmer than the outside, they all came to notice. That could be attributed to the negligence of the heating system or the fact that every surface in the damn building was polished and smooth, and not a very good insulator.

It showed especially when they were all getting changed.

It was very quiet, abnormally so. They all changed in silence, a cacophony of rustling and zipping and elbowing locker doors because there were seven of them in there like sardines in a tin.

Then there was a colossal banging, a persistent yet inconsistent beat of something clanging off of metal. Everyone froze in their tracks, Wilbur halfway through tugging the uniform off his legs and Dan's foot slamming to the ground as he tried to tug his shoes on.

"What the fuck?" David voiced from the back of the room, doing the top button of his flannel.

"I don't know." It was the first time Charlie had spoken all day without being directly spoken to, and as per usual everyone just ignored him. They all listened to the sound for a second, before the door to the locker room opened and a head of blonde hair peered around it.

"If you were planning on walking out of here, it's probably best you arrange something else." Their probation worker made a vague gesture over his shoulder. "Hailstone."

The room rolled its eyes.

"Fantastic."

Wil's smile was sardonic in nature, but the expression didn't spread to his eyes. He didn't look like he cared. "Guess we'll just wait it out."

David didn't look too happy with the suggestion, yet he wasn't jumping at the opportunity to dance in the storm.

They all shut their lockers, sharing the same distasteful look, before following Wil out into the corridor, where he threw himself down in a nearby abandoned wheelchair, sitting in it like it was a throne.

Rhianna was already changed, lurking in the corridor with an indifferent expression as she stared through the glass of the double doors.

It looked like someone had opened a giant beanbag and showered the place in angry polystyrene. She didn't mind that they were snowed in; she wouldn't be doing anything interesting when she went home anyway, so a little while longer spent in the community centre was a little while longer spent away from an impending existential crisis.

And it was always nice not to be forced to walk across the estate in the hail. That was a definite plus, even if it did mean she was stuck with everyone else.

Jack slid down the wall next to her and they watched the weather in silence.

Jack was probably the only person in the group she could stand for extended periods of time, inexplicably. Why she'd rather spend time with him rather than being ordered around by Wil and harassed by George, she'd never know.

He was the only person she felt she could trust, considering that he felt the same way, so sharing this moment of quiet and subtle intimacy didn't make the situation uncomfortable like it would with everyone else, and their impenetrable auras of invulnerability.

George was unnaturally calm, Dan and David unnaturally quiet and Wilbur unnaturally lax. Matt was nowhere to be seen.

That wasn't anything unusual, he tended to fuck off whenever he pleased, and Rhianna really didn't blame him.

Maybe he'd already set off into the storm, rather than deal with what would have been an insufferable situation if it wasn't for the fact that the day was unusual as it was.

Wouldn't she have seen him pass by? It's not as though an orange hoodie is so hard to miss, especially in the greyscale on the other side of the glass.

"Did Matt go home?" She asked quietly, looking towards Jack. He shrugged.

"I don't know. I'm assuming, if he's not here now."

But that didn't answer her question. It wasn't something to dwell on, after all, but there was a nagging anxiety that'd taken root in her stomach and she couldn't ignore it any more.

***

As soon as it'd been suggested they stay, Matt had bailed.

He wasn't in the mood. Maybe on any other day, he'd have jumped at the opportunity to wreck shit with all the others, but he just wasn't feeling it.

He drowned out the sound of the hail with his headphones, letting his music, and the storm, wash over him. At this point, he wasn't even sure what song it was, or what the singer was saying, but he needed background noise that wasn't simply the colossal uproar of hail hitting the asphalt.

There was so much noise, thousands of sounds all mixing into one huge, incomprehensible mess that overwhelmed him to the point he couldn't hear himself think.

That was exactly what he was aiming to do.

The bus stop he stood at had no shelter, only a pole and a sign, but even the feeling of cold wetness down his spine was a welcome one, and the sound of the hail ricocheting off the metal of it even more so.

It was calming in a way that always perplexed him.

The winds were picking up.

Their whistle had turned into a howl, the footsteps of the rain had turned into a drum beat.

In the midst of the storm, suddenly Matt didn't feel so safe.

But salvation was coming. Through the building mist, the spray of water in the air and general darkness of a typical winter afternoon, there was a pair of headlights and a towering shape to be seen. His bus, it was coming.

But it couldn't come soon enough.

He stared at the pinpricks of light as they moved, but only steadily.

He wasn't in a rush, he wasn't impatient, and there was no one at the bus stop with him for him to subconsciously race for a seat on the bus.

With that in mind, there wasn't anyone on the street. No cars, no people, just him and the bus.

It would be, when the bus got there.

Oh. It'd stopped.

He could only assume it was at another stop, but why would there be two stops with such a short distance between them, unless-

The little hope in his chest didn't deflate, it popped like a balloon.

It was on the wrong side of the road.

He would have punched the pole, but maybe that could be considered stupid.

He couldn't just stick around for another bus, he didn't have the patience.

He wanted to go home, today had been a drag in all aspects it could possibly manage, and he'd tip his hat to that if it wasn't such a massive fucking drain on him.

Leaning heavily on the pole, he rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. It was wet and slippery, getting his hoodie more wet than it had the right to be.

Maybe he should have stayed at the centre, but no because he set off like the dumb fuck he was, not taking the time to evaluate the situation.

He closed his eyes, but was perplexed at the sight of a light glowing behind his eyelids.

Was he wrong about the bus? Were these the headlights, his saving grace?

He opened his eyes to stare into the dusk, but all was black,

There was a bright flash of light, and a stab of searing pain.


End file.
